


We are asleep until we fall in love

by nicklewho



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Major AU, about three hours, and this idea has been cooking for, but fedya is there to rescue them, its a MISTAKE, sonya and the rostovs stay in moscow to wait for nikki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-04-24 02:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14346333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicklewho/pseuds/nicklewho
Summary: The Rostovs decide to stay in Moscow and wait for Nikolai to fetch them. As they wait they watch the city in chaos, watch it get sacked and pillaged. Sonya bore witness, as she always did, with large, sad, brown eyes. She felt powerless to do anything, powerless to help her family the Rostovas, and powerless to contact Nikolai. That was, until a dark figure from her past returned to her in a pool of light, extended his hand, and offered to rescue her and her family.





	1. The Great Escape

Sonya did not belong to the Rostovas, who had always been kind to her but ultimately dismissed her as a cousin, and she did not belong to the Alexandrovnas, who had been dead for many years. Sonya used to believe that she belonged to Nikolai, Nikki, her childhood best friend, her confidant, the man she loved. 

But Sonya belonged to no one, now. When it was dark and she was frightened and heard the sounds of cannons and gunfire reaching their dark fingers closer to her home, she entertained her anxious mind with the thought of her loneliness. How if Natasha passed away, she would have no place in the home anymore. How, if the family Rostov were to all perish, she would be a glorified peasant. And worst of all, how, if, she never accepted a marriage proposal, she would become a poor old maid. 

Sonya often thought of her suitor, Fyodor Dolokhov, who haunted her dreams with his kaleidoscope eyes that shifted from darkest black to brightest blue and his sharp jawline. The man seemed to have no joy, especially when they first met, and yet she was able to coax from the deep, dark caverns of his mind, a small smile. Then laughter. They loved to laugh together, and he loved to trace the stitched floral patterns of her dresses with his fingers all the way up to her thighs. She knew at the time that it was wrong to let a man, a virtual stranger, touch her this way, and yet, she found that she didn’t care. 

Natasha was uncomfortable by Dolokhov’s forwardness with Sonya. They discussed it often, Sonya feigning discomfort while not knowing quite how to feel. She told Natasha she loved Nikolai. She told herself she loved Nikolai. 

And when confronted by poor Dolokhov’s feelings, and his marriage proposal, Sonya refused him, not unkindly, and told him that she loved someone else. 

He’d taken it quite well, at first, for a man who was known for his fits of passion. He excused himself from the room while the Countess Rostova looked on in shock an horror, and took his leave to the hall, where he proceeded to punch the wall in an outburst and anger. He could no doubt hear the Countess Rostova chiding Sonya in the other room. 

“For a girl to no prospects, with no money, to refuse an Officer, it’s a disgrace, Sofya! I will not have it! Go apologize-”

“Please, Countess, I love someone else, please, I implore you-”

“Do it!” 

“I must refuse, respectfully, Countess.” Sonya had said, watching the Countess’ lip quiver with a tremor in her heart and a weight on her mind. 

Had she made the right decision? Sonya was supposed to be the sensible one, the one who knew what, and who, she wanted in life. Now, her strong foundation was cracking beneath her feet, all because of the strong, dark stranger in the house. 

She’d promised herself again to Nicholas later that evening, though in retrospect, she recognized her mistakes. 

Now, six years had passed. And Sonya reflected on her misery as her home, her city, Moscow, burned and flamed around her. She stood in the Rostov’s conservatory, peering out the huge window at the hopeless city, her chest heaving and her heart pounding. She knew they should have followed Petya’s advice, she knew they should have evacuated with the others. But the Countess and Natasha had insisted on waiting for Nikki, that he would come and rescue them and they would all ride off to safety as a family. 

Now she felt foolish. Foolish for waiting for him, not just to come to Moscow, but for him to marry her. She felt foolish because she’d spent her golden years of youth denying suitors in the hopes that her cousin would deign to marry her, though she was prospectless and poor. 

Sonya felt very suddenly that she cared not if she died here in the Rostov’s house, in the conservatory, where she’d promised herself to Nicholas so many years ago. She turned away from the window which overlooked the garden and the horrors beyond. She centered herself on the spot where she and Nikki had shared a kiss, where she saw him off to the army. 

The destruction grew closer. She could hear glass breaking outside in the garden and the sound of horse’s hooves and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for the French to at least have the decency to make her death short and relatively painless. As she crossed herself, the enormous glass window busted open behind her, and glass particles embedded themselves in the backs of her arms and her dress and mixed in with her long, dark hair. She whirled around to meet her maker and instead saw her past suitor, the strange, strong man who had fallen under the irresistible influence of the dark graceful girl so many years ago. Blood was smudged across his forehead, which carried a few more lines than the last time they met, and his beard had grown in nicely, but he was unmistakable. 

“Monsieur Dolokhov?” she said, too shocked to notice the sharp pains in her arms and back. He was more of an outline than a man, illuminated from behind by the flames of Moscow. He stood, his figure dark, in the windowsill of the shattered conservatory window. He did not move his feet. 

“Miss Sophie. Why are you still in Moscow?” he said, shocked to see her. She could hear the sounds of French soldiers yelling commands at one another. 

“The Rostovs decided to wait for my cousin Nicholas to return so that we could evacuate as a family. As you can see,” she gestured to the destroyed garden behind him and the glass which littered the floor around her, “It has not exactly gone as planned.” 

“You must leave the city at once, Sonya. Napoleon is here and has taken the Kremlin, and there is no hope of saving our Moscow.” As he spoke, his eyes grew more urgent, which made Sonya feel ups

“We have no way out,” said Sonya hysterically. “We have no money, Monsieur Dolokhov...” she said, then came to her senses and grew very cross with him all at once. The shock of seeing him wore off, and anger replaced the warm feelings of familiarity. “But you must already know, as you were the cause of the family Rostov’s financial ruin.”

“I assure you, my part in the Countess Natalia’s kidnapping was minimal, as I attempted to convince my friend, Anatole Kuragin, that it was a mistake...” he still stood in the windowsill, looking significantly weaker than he had just a few moments before. His uniform almost looked too big on him. Sonya almost pitied him at that moment. Almost. 

“I could recognize your handwriting on the letter he wrote her. Not right away, but I was able to discover it after I heard you shouting for Kuragin on that terrible night.”

“You- recognized my hand?” he faltered, feeling more and more helpless as the beautiful orphan regarded him coldly. They both heard horses nearby and heard explosions in the houses nearby. The heat from the fire reached Sonya’s brow. 

“Yes. I recognized it. And what of your stealing 43,000 roubles from Nicholas-” he cut her off angrily and bitterly. 

“Oh, of course, it all comes down to Nikolai, as always. Precious, loyal Sonya, always first to defend the man who wouldn’t even think to defend her if he had the chance, which he does right now at this moment and yet he is where? Has he gathered the manhood to make you his wife, or is he still squandering your faith and loyalty to him-”

“Nikki is currently in the employ of Princess Marya Bolkonskaya, for whom he has feelings. So, Monsieur, if you have not embarrassed me enough to-night, I think that I must help to evacuate the family.” She turned to go, not knowing in the slightest how she would ever begin to escape the city.

“Wait. Sonya,” he said, stepping out of the windowsill and moving quickly across the room to her. He extended his hand expectantly. “Please. Allow me to make up for my misdeeds. Allow me to help you and the Rostovs secure passage out of the city. Please, let me help you to escape.” He said, an unreadable expression painting his dark features. She could feel glass cracking under her feet. She pondered very briefly his offer, just as she had six years earlier. Only this time she said... 

“Very well, Monsieur.” She took his hand. “Help us.” 

Sonya led him upstairs, where they found Natasha, the Count and the Countess cowering in the drawing room behind a couch. There was glass on the floor. It seemed that one of the windows had been blown out by the force from a nearby explosion. The Countesses Rostova were praying while the Count laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. Sofya Alexandrovna Rostova mustered up the courage to address the family. Dolokhov watched from the doorway. 

“Uncle, I said that we should have left the city earlier,” said Sonya, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “Now we have no choice and cannot take any of our belongings.” The Countess whimpered. The Count looked at his shoes, a vacant expression on his old face. 

“Sonya, why are you with Dolokhov?” said Natasha in a whisper. Sonya shook her head. 

“Dear cousin, we cannot afford right now to keep grudges against figures from the past. As a matter of life and death, I have enlisted Monsieur Dolokhov to help us escape from the city.”

Natasha stood, sizing up the man in the doorway. She frowned. She’d never liked him and liked him even less now after all the ruin he’d caused her and her brother.  

“I do not like this, Sonya, it could be a trap.”

“We have no choice. We either die here or die with Monsieur Dolokhov.” 

“I want to die here,” said the Count plaintively. The Countess shook him and helped him to his feet. 

“Very well, girl. But I want you to know how ungratefully you are behaving, and how much you will owe this family when we must leave behind our possessions.” 

Before Sonya could reply, Dolokhov spoke up. “Respectfully, Countess, I believe that, under the circumstances, you are lucky that your niece thought to rescue you as well. She very easily could have left you for dead surrounded by your...” he looked around and his lip curled cruelly. “... possessions.” 

“Well, the nerve...” started the Countess, but Natalya Rostova silenced her. 

“Hush, mamma. Help us, Dolokhov.”

 

* * *

 

Once they were safe from the city, they rode in silence. Dolokhov hummed quietly to himself as his horse kept a leisurely pace beside Sonya’s. She was under practiced at riding and felt quite tired. She wished she could stop to rest, but knew not how far a safe zone would be. She looked at her companion with uncertainty. 

He had successfully sabotaged her family (time and again) and the family of their good friend, Pierre Bezukhov. In this respect, she was wary of him still. 

That said, he had rescued her and her loved ones, salvaging them from Moscow like tinder from a shipwreck, and though she had been ready to embrace her mortality, she was grateful that she had not died. 

This was because she did not want to die asleep. Someone once said that we are all asleep until we fall in love. Sonya once thought that she was awake, awake and alive and Godlike in the arms of Nikolai, her trusted friend, her first love. 

But it was not until Dolokhov had taken a bullet for her that she woke up. It was then as if the whole world had lifted itself up and shook itself, and she felt like the angels above wept tears of joy. She was reborn from the Dust and Ashes of Moscow. As the dirty city burned around her, she reanimated herself from the pain of her relationship with Nikolai and became free. And her feelings for Dolokhov were suddenly so strong and intense that she could scarcely trust herself. Poor Sofya, who all her life had been the most sensible girl in Moscow, was now perhaps making herself the most stupid girl in all of Russia. 

She did not dare to catch Dolokhov’s eye, but rather, she looked at his wound, the bullet hole in his arm. He was not flinching but could not hold the reins to his horse in his right hand. She winced, her heart aching for his pain. The blood around the wound had congealed to his officer’s coat and it was sticky but not oozing any longer. She longed to stop and tend to it but she did not trust herself to mend the wound adequately, and if she was being honest with herself, she did not trust herself so close to him. She felt as though she were under a spell of sorts, and was in a completely different territory from when she courted Nicholas. 

“To where do we ride, Monsieur?” asked the Countess from behind. She was riding a French soldier’s horse and clutched the reins tightly in her frail hands. The Count sat behind her on the horse. 

“To Mytishchi, Countess.” Dolokhov replied, his gruff voice strained. Sonya had no doubt that the pain in his arm was great. 

“How far are we, Monsieur Dolokhov?” asked Natasha. She sat behind Sonya. Her arms were wrapped around her cousin’s waist and her feet were bare because she’d lost her slippers in the mad escape. Dolokhov had promised to find her new shoes. 

“I’m not sure Countess, but my best guess would be about three miles.” He replied again, this time his voice was more controlled. Sonya knew that he was building a facade between his pain and the Rostov party, and she was grateful for his strength because there was no way that the Count and Countess would be able to make it three miles without his calm and demanding demeanor. 

But Sonya knew that it was an act and that he was badly hurt. 

She recalled the circumstances of the shooting. They’d been sneaking through the city for hours that evening, desperately seeking horses or transport out. Dolokhov called on acquaintance after acquaintance and no one was home. They’d all gone. They holed up in someone’s house, which had been stripped of the expensive furnishings and art. They were on the second floor in a sitting room of some sort. Old cheap books littered the floor and an understuffed sofa sat in the middle of the otherwise bare room. The Rostovs sat on the sofa, their faces masks of horror. Dolokhov paced the room, occasionally stopping to look apprehensively out of the window. 

Sonya, too, was terrified, but tried to calm her nerves by breathing deeply. This was difficult because she was utterly stifled by the flames and by the three coats she was wearing. She was wearing three coats so that she wouldn’t have to carry them in her carpet bag, but now she wished she’d brought nothing at all. Her feeling of terror increased as a bomb went off in the adjacent building from where they were hiding. The count vomited instantly, vacating his system for what seemed like ages. Natasha was crying quietly, and the Countess had clapped a hand over her own mouth to keep from screaming out loud. Sofya herself was clamping her jaw shut and digging her fingernails into her palms to avoid vomiting as well. 

It was then that Dolokhov told Sofya what they had to do. That was even more terrifying than the bomb. 

“Sonyushka, we must steal horses.” He said, his voice quivering only slightly. Her heart dropped into her stomach swiftly, and she shook from the effort it took to not heave. 

“Steal them from who?” she said, her jaw still clenched. 

“The French, Sonya.” He replied in an unreadable voice. 

Her eyes had gone as large as the moon. 

“It is suicide, Fedya! We can not-”

“It is suicide to stay! We must take a risk or we will surely die in this room.” Dolokhov said seriously. His eyes were so dark brown they seemed almost black as they surveyed her young face. He grabbed her hand and kissed it. She tried not to cry. 

“Stay here, I will be back to fetch you.” He said, then stood abruptly. She scrambled to her feet indignantly. 

“I refuse to stay. If you die out there we will just wait for you helplessly until we are discovered. I am coming with you.” she said, trying to make her eyes hard to convey the message that she was not going to debate with him. He seemed to want to argue but judged that there was no time. He simply nodded weakly. Sonya turned to the Rostovs, who shuddered on the threadbare sofa next to the vomit. Natalya stood abruptly. 

“Sonyushka, you mustn’t go. Stay here, we will wait together-” Natasha said, coming to Sonya’s side. Sofya merely shook her head as another bomb went off a little farther away. The windows rattled in their panes and the Count looked like he was going to be sick again. 

“Natasha, I tire of waiting for men. Nikolai, Dolokhov. I’m going. Wait here for me, beloved cousin. I will return.” Sonya knew in her mind that she was in no place to be making promises, yet she still hugged her barefoot cousin tightly as possible and retreated with Dolokhov. They crept quietly out of the house, staying the shadowed alleys and making their way toward the sounds of gruff men barking orders at each other loudly in French and horse’s hooves. 

“You are braver than when we last met, Sonya,” Dolokhov said quietly as they walked, devastatingly slowly, with their backs to a wall, down a dark corridor. Sonya had walked this corridor a hundred times and never appreciated how damn long it was. 

“I am older and wiser. I am not a child anymore. I am an old maid.” she said cynically. He laughed quietly. 

“You are no old maid, Sonyushka. You are just as beautiful as the first day I saw you. Even more so.” he replied. She could not see his face because of the darkness, but was gad because that meant that  _ he  _ could not see the brilliant red color in her cheeks. 

“What is the plan?” was all she could muster. He shrugged. 

“I must scope out the layout of the camp first. I will tell you the plan when we see it.”

When they reached the other side of the alleyway, they were confronted with a bustling French camp where the marketplace used to be. French horses cantered down the stone roads while French soldiers marched and talked loudly. Sonya could see people she knew, people she saw almost every day, in chains. She looked earnestly for Nikki but couldn’t see him. She supposed that the prisoners were mostly townspeople. The woman who sold Vatrushka at the stand Sonya so loved was bound on the other side of the square, a prisoner to the French. Her stomach dropped. 

Dolokhov pointed to the makeshift stable, where several horses were whinnying against their constraints. He held a finger to his lips and she watched him sneak around the outskirts of the camp, staying close to the walls. His face was only occasionally illuminated by the fires and torches. Sofya Alexandrovna followed him and they snuck together, trying to go unnoticed. 

Surely, Sonya thought, there would be enough hustle and bustle in the square for anyone to see them. Surely, they looked dirty enough to blend in with the walls. Surely-

“Arrêtez! Arrêtez là!” they heard. A French soldier was pointing to them, and soon, a few of his companions were also looking their way, angry expressions on their shaved faces. 

“Run!” Dolokhov shouted. She made a break for the stables while Dolokhov drew his pistol. He shot a few of the soldiers, which just made more of them notice him. He kept shooting, missing no shots until he was out of ammunition in his pistol and was forced to draw his sword. He fought with the French as Sonya led three horses from the stables and struggled to get them to walk with her. 

“We must go, Dolokhov!” she screamed. He looked over at her as he sliced his sword through a Frenchman and nodded, swinging his long brown hair up and out of his face. Sonya anxiously surveyed the situation, hoping that he would be able to make it out alive. She walked the horses into the alleyway and watched from her quiet place as Dolokhov fought three men at once. He was on the opposite side of the square from her, how was she to save him? 

Just then, an idea occurred to her. Using her limited knowledge of knots, she secured the reins of two of the horses to the reins of one, then mounted it. She had no idea what she was doing but knew that she must rescue Dolokhov. She egged the horse forward by jabbing her heels sharply into its sides. As it took off, the two other horses were forced to follow. Sonya galloped across the square with the equine entourage and trampled several soldiers as she went. Dolokhov saw her and stopped fighting instantly, withdrawing his sword from one man and sprinting toward Sonya and the horses. As he mounted one horse she untied it from her own, and they two of them broke off at a high speed, galloping away from the square as mounted French soldiers chased them. 

“Stay close to your horse, Sonya, don’t get shot!” she could hear him screaming. She shuddered and lined her torso up with the horse’s neck, trying to make herself a difficult target.

They rounded a corner and Dolokhov ended up in front of her as they galloped toward the Rostovs. She looked around behind her and saw 7 or 10 Frenchmen aiming their weapons at her. She screamed. Dolokhov whirled around at the sound, and in a moment of complete stupidity, he suddenly brought his horse to a full and complete stop. Sonya’s horse crashed into his and she was forcefully thrown from it, landing uncomfortably on the stone walkway. Winded, she looked up just in time to see the Frenchmen fire. Several bullets hit the wall, one or two whizzed past her head, and one buried itself in Dolokhov’s right arm. She watched the blood splatter through the air. 

“Fedya!” she screamed, too afraid to be embarrassed by herself. Dolokhov dismounted, holding his right arm with his left, and then withdrew his sword. Sonya witnessed, with her large brown eyes, Fedya Dolokhov fighting 7 mounted French soldiers with one arm. She witnessed him win the fight. Against all odds, Dolokhov walked away from the fight with just his bullet wound and a few slashes on his face and chest. The horses of the Frenchmen scurried away, but their stolen horses waited patiently for their masters to remount them. 

“You... saved my life,” Sonya said, breathlessly as Dolokhov helped her to her feet. 

“You saved mine. Now, we are even Sonyushka,” he replied, some mirth playing in his eyes. He was older, but the same boyish charm which had attracted her once was still there. Only this time, she was not an idiotic, naive 16-year-old. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, her face burning with embarrassment, and avoided eye contact as she remounted her horse. 

“Come, Dolokhov, let us escape Moscow,” she said. He nodded, and they found the Rostovs. The rest of the escape was just a fast and unruly ride out of the city.

 

* * *

 

 

Which brought Sonya back to the present. She’d been so focused on the events of the evening that she barely noticed the first rays of sunlight edging their way into the dark black sky. The glow of Moscow burning was not a sight so terrible when the sun was beginning to glow in the opposite direction. Sonya found comfort in the sun, but the light illuminated Dolokhov’s wounds, which were worse than she remembered. 

“Fed- Monsieur! Your wound looks terrible!” she exclaimed. Natasha, who had fallen into a nap against her back, woke suddenly. 

“When we arrive, Monsieur Dolokhov, surely you will let us attend to you-” Natasha was interrupted. 

“No, Countess, I must return to my Brigade...” he said, uncomfortably. 

“Nonsense,” Natalie replied, her response good-natured but firm. “You must let us at least have a look at that bullet wound. How ever did you get it?” 

Dolokhov looked even more uncomfortable. “We were pursued from the square,” he responded. His right hand, which he had rested on his thigh, shook. Sonya dreaded to see how bad the wound was. She felt guilty at his taking a bullet for her when she’d sworn to not get in the way. As much as his self-sacrifice thrilled her, it also carved a pit in her stomach. She wasn’t used to good deeds being done for her benefit. 

They finally arrived in Mytishchi early that morning, around 6. The Count and Countess immediately found a bed in a large cabin where they were also keeping several wounded soldiers. Natasha and Sonya tended to the horses and stripped them of their French insignias before retiring with Dolokhov into the cabin. 

They sat at the wooden table in the sparse kitchen and waited for a surgeon to come and look at his arm. It was quiet in the room, so quiet that Sonya could barely stand it. She shifted restlessly in her chair and avoided looking into Dolokhov’s eyes. She feared the color she would find. Would they be dark blue like they’d been when they sang together at the piano? Would they be black like when their lives were in danger the night before? Would they be icy blue like that terrible day when she’d refused his proposal? She could hardly stand the anticipation, and so she stood and busied herself with preparations of tea. 

“Make me a cup,” Natasha said tiredly from her chair. Her head was in her hands and her elbows were propped on the table. Her kind green eyes were closing despite themselves. She was barely awake. 

“Go rest, Countess,” Dolokhov said. Sonya panicked as she awaited Natasha’s reply. She both did and did not want to be alone with Fedya. She watched as the kettle heated over the fire, trying to guard her expression from both her cousin and her... Dolokhov. 

“No, I want to see you better before I can sleep. You saved all of us.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been able to do it without your lovely cousin, Countess.”

“Natasha, please. I must confess, Monsieur Dolokhov, I find that you are much changed from when... from when I last saw you.” Natasha said. Sonya continued to watch the flame. 

“I agree, Countess,” Dolokhov said respectfully. “Age has its effects on even the most rakish of youths.”

“Not all of them.” Natasha replied quietly, then, as Sonya turned around to look at her disapprovingly, she seemed to realize how inappropriate her speech had been. 

“Forgive me. I know that you are quite fond...” 

“No harm done.” was Dolokhov’s short reply. Sonya was enraptured by his visage. The early morning sun shone through the dusty window panes, illuminating his scruffy face, his eyelashes, and his blue-green eyes. He moistened his lips. Sonya was so busy staring that she barely noticed when the water boiled.  

“Sonyushka,” said Natalie gently. Sonya was shaken from her stupor and retrieved the kettle from the flames. She poured three cups of tea and sat back down at Natasha’s side. The whole time she could feel Fedya’s eyes on her, surveying her movements, observing her steps, examining her little tells. She bit her lips as she carried the kettle and her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth ever so slightly as she poured the tea. Most notably, she leaned forward as she sat, which gave Dolokhov a momentary glance of her bosom. He swallowed hard as she began to sip her tea. 

Just then, the doctor came into the room, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He was quite an old man. He had a white beard which reached his chest and a thin fuzz of white hair adorning his head, which was splattered with liver spots. He mopped his head with a kerchief. 

“Is everything alright, doctor?” asked Sonya to break the tension. 

“The patient in the back room is not doing so well. I am worried for his life.” Said the doctor, sitting down in the chair next to Dolokhov and placing his doctor’s bag on the table. 

“I am sorry to hear it,” Sonya replied. 

“Ah, so it goes, my dear. But here we have a very strong youth! You’ll pull through, my boy. What do they call you?” 

“Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov is the name my mother gave to me,” Fedya replied, gritting his teeth as the doctor helped him out of his jacket and shirt. Sonya bristled at the sight of Dolokhov’s bare chest, which was like something out of a sculpture gallery. There was a smattering of dark hair across his chest and a trail of it which disappeared into the waistline of his pants. Sonya squirmed slightly and was glad that Dolokhov’s eyes were closed so that he could not see her looking at his bare chest like that. 

“Nothing too serious. Passed cleanly through.” said the doctor, examining the bullet wound through small, round spectacles. “Should heal up in a few weeks.”

“When can I return to service?” asked Dolokhov. The doctor laughed. 

“Eager to serve your country, eh, my boy? You’ll be able to leave as early as Sunday.” Dolokhov nodded. The doctor worked slowly and deliberately and stitched up Dolokhov’s bullet wounds, along with a gash across his other arm and one on his chest. Then the doctor went away. 

“Are you alright, Monsieur?” asked Sonya shyly, looking up into Dolokhov’s eyes. He gave her a small, tart smile. 

“Yes, Sonyushka. I will be alright, I have had pain worse than this.” Sonya couldn’t help but believe that he was referring to his botched marriage proposal. She blushed and looked at Natasha, who had watched the whole surgical procedure with a sort of disgusted interest. She was now asleep. 

“I should... take her to bed.” Sonya said with uncertainty. She tentatively touched Natasha’s arm, and she opened her sleepy eyes long enough to allow herself to be draped over Sophia’s shoulders. 

“Good night, Sonyushka.” Dolokhov said, his voice unreadable. Sonya stood in the doorway, supporting Natasha’s weight. She turned to look at Dolokhov from where he sat at the table. 

“Fedy- Dolokhov. Please promise me that you won’t go until Sunday,” she said this with a great amount of apprehension, as she was nervous that his reply would be yes but also that it would be no. He faced her, and, wincing at the pain in his arm and the newness of the sling around his neck, walked over to her. She awaited his arrival nervously. He placed a small, tender kiss on her forehead, and she could feel his whiskers tickling her face. 

“As you wish.” he whispered with so much compassion that Sonya’s knees buckled. She flushed brilliantly, which he no doubt missed. She stopped herself from grinning like a girl, though, and hoisted herself up to her greatest height, dragging the sleepy Natalya with her. 

“Monsieur, I am no longer a girl. You know this?”

“Yes, Miss, just as I am no longer a boy. Do you understand?” 

She thought she did. What this communicated to her was that he wasn’t occupied by boyish pursuits any longer, drinking, women, sin. He was focused on his career and wasn’t going to have himself demoted again because of the crazed urgings of Anatole Kuragin. 

“Yes. I understand. Monsieur. And I thank you once again for saving my life, and the lives of my family. It means more to me than I can say.” she said, unable to stop her lip from quivering. Some of the roguishness returned to his eyes at the sight, and they darkened. 

“Likewise. Get some rest.” His eyes were still on her lips, so she pursed them together into what she hoped was a polite smile and not a big, stupid looking grin, and half walked, half carried Natasha into the room they would be sharing. She removed Natasha’s overdress and washed her face and hands with a wet cloth before tucking her cousin into the small, straw bed. A cozy quilt and a bearskin blanket were draped over her. Sonya cleaned herself and undressed before curling up next to her cousin, smiling to herself the entire time. 

She replayed every time Dolokhov had referred to her as “Sonyushka” again and again in her mind, almost obsessively. She imagined his hands on her wrist, her face, tracing the flowers on her thighs. Her mind was full of him, and it was so overwhelming that Sonya fell asleep almost the instant she laid down next to her warm cousin. 

Across the cabin, Dolokhov found his bed on the floor next to a man who was supposed to room alone. There was no more space left, and the man hadn’t objected. As Dolokhov sat on the windowsill of the back room and removed his boots, he realized with a start that his roommate was no stranger, but it was Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. The man whose life he’d helped to ruin. 

Dolokhov wanted to keep his promise to Sonya but felt suddenly trapped in Mytishchi, like a fly on the wall. Andrei only had to say the word and Dolokhov could be killed on sight. 

But the thought of Sofya’s sweet face, her age hardly showing, her mind more developed and strong than the last time they’d met, was enough for him to make himself lie down on the makeshift cot and roll over, away from his troubles, and think of his angel. 

He hated to think of her in such poetic cliches, but the only other words to describe Sophie were Goddess, Nymph, Devine. Words from Shakespeare. Idiotic romantic feelings and notions of love, notions that he hadn’t thought of (or hadn’t allowed himself to think of) in a little over six years. But now...

Sonya had requested his presence. Sonya was free of Nicholas. Sonya trusted him with her life. Sonya’s lips smiling rarely at him as he’d bid her goodnight that morning. Sonya’s beautiful breasts hanging in front of his eyes, more lovely than Helene’s or anyone else’s that he’d seen in his long life. 

The positive feelings Sonya invoked in him were enough to frighten him senseless, and yet, as he lay wrapped in quilts, he could not help but think of her with hope for the first time in six long years. Though he was due to leave in just three days, and though their lives were in danger, and though he was sleeping next to what would be a bombshell on the Rostovs, he found himself not caring about those things, and his eyelids drooped pleasantly as he thought of Sonya’s chaste kiss on his cheek, and the feelings it had stirred. She was surely no longer the 16-year-old girl his 24-year-old self had fallen in love with. She was a grown woman, changed completely, and he was interested in finding out just who she was these days, and in falling in love with her once again. 

What did he have to lose? 

  
  



	2. A Work of Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalie finds Andrei and faces a dilemma, meanwhile, Sonya and Dolokhov become reacquainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to come out, I wrote chapter 1 right before finals, so I was really busy. I also went through a little writer's block, but we are back and swinging. Please review, your reviews made me so happy and really motivated me to write this chapter.

When Sonya awoke she was alone in the straw bed. She only cracked her eyes open because the cold spot where her cousin was laying not long ago sent a chill to her feet and hands. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and began to get ready for the day. She judged by the light that it was about midday. She couldn’t make herself be embarrassed about sleeping so late, as the events from the night before were enough to make anyone tired. She unpinned her hair in the dusty mirror, watching the strands of brown hair fall around her shoulders. She was not the beauty of the family like Natasha, but her angular features (which stood in stark contrast to her soft personality) were splattered with freckles from days in the Russian sun, and her lidded blue-green eyes were adorned by long lashes. She wasn’t the beauty of the family, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t beautiful.

However, years of living in Natasha’s shadow and of Nikolai’s neglect had given her the impression that her outward appearance was unimpressive, which it wasn’t. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a very plain girl, unremarkable, while others saw a dark, beautiful woman, not too old and yet not still a child. She fussed with her hair for a moment before donning the clean dress Natasha had lain out for her on the bed. Sonya usually didn’t take so much care with her appearance, especially when Nikolai wasn’t at the house. Her philosophy of beauty was that being scrubbed and clean was good enough. Now she wished she had more than just the plain bar of goat’s milk soap she’d tossed haphazardly into her carpet bag the night before. 

Sonya decided to take a peek around the house before eating breakfast (lunch) and going out to do some laundry. She left her room and shut the door behind her, feeling for some reason very naked. She ventured quietly down the hall, which creaked and moaned under her footsteps. Cringing, she knocked on the door to one room. When there was no answer, she slowly turned the knob to find her Aunt and Uncle asleep in the bed. Panicked, she quickly shut the door and continued exploring the house. 

She passed by the kitchen where Dolokhov had been stitched back together by the kindly old doctor. She passed by the back door to the house, which was aloft, and a cool breeze blew through the thin fabric of her dress and sent a shiver down her spine. Her flesh was covered by goose pimples, and she crossed her arms over her chest. Venturing out of doors, Sonya peered in the direction of Moscow and saw the black smoke had turned white. The fires were no longer burning. She crossed herself, thanking God for allowing the suffering of Moscow to end, and sat down on the steps to the back porch. She wiggled her toes inside her shoes and tried very hard not to cry. 

The weight of the events of the night before finally came crashing around her shoulders. Now, she was not the only Rostov with no prospects. All of the family Rostov’s belongings had probably been burned or stolen by now, and they had no money. Natasha had no dowry, which meant that no one in his right mind would take her as a bride. Nikolai was the only member of the family who was making an income and could be killed at any moment. A solitary chill ran through Sophia’s body as she considered the implications of this. Surely, no girl would want to marry a boy from a family of paupers, which meant that Princess Marya would likely lose interest. If there was nowhere for Nikolai to marry up... then surely there would be no objections to him marrying Sonya.

As she drew this conclusion, Sonya felt no joy. No skip in her heart at the idea of a marriage to Nicholas, no thrill at the thought of calling herself Countess Sofya Rostova. She tried to entertain herself with thoughts which used to make her feel bittersweet, naming her and Nikolai’s first child after her biological mother, taking trips to the south of France in the summers, to Petersburg in the winters, and living in the country year round. She used to flutter at the idea of married life, days of children, of paying taxes, of parties and helping her daughters come out into society. Now, the hopes and dreams she used to have for her future seemed trivial. Sofya Alexandrovna wiped away the old dreams and found her mind blank. It was comforting, somehow, to have no aspirations, especially in relation to Nicholas. It was so comforting, in fact, that she stood up and took a deep breath of the Russian air, clouded with the haze and smoke of the burning Moscow, and found her lungs and body were scrubbed clean. Then, Sonya went back into the house to find Natasha. 

She ventured into the back room and opened the door quietly. The day had progressed somewhat and the sun was no longer straight ahead but was beginning its arc back around to the west. The pool of light on the floor of the back room was warm, and it was the first thing Sonya noticed in the room before she looked up. Dolokhov was wrapped in a quilt, sitting on the windowsill, his eyes closed. Natasha was at the bedside of the wounded soldier, who, to Sonya’s surprise, was Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. She closed her mouth, for it had dropped open, and she said, 

“Natasha.” Natalie turned to face her cousin, who was standing awkwardly in the doorway. 

“Oh Sonya, look who it is!” she exclaimed, her face aglow. Andrei, to his credit, gave Sonya a small smile. Dolokhov had moved to a standing position when he saw that Sonya was in the room. 

“Hello, Prince Bolkonsky. How are you feeling?” Sonya said politely, avoiding Dolokhov’s dark glance. She wasn’t quite ready to broach the subject of her complicated romantic feelings, and so she clung to her sensible, polite side. 

“Quite well, thank you, Sonya.” the Prince replied. His blonde head was propped up on a pile of flat pillows and his hands were crossed over his chest, giving him somewhat the look of a pampered Rajah of India. He laid on top of the blankets, and Sonya could see a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip and neck, indicating that he had a high fever. Sofya blanched. He looked quite pale and his eyes were ringed by soft purple flesh. There were clean white bandages wrapped around his stomach, though a small splotch of red was beginning to show through. “How are you?” Andrei mustered, swallowing hard after the speech escaped his pale lips. 

“I am well, Prince.” Sonya’s voice quivered. Andrei would surely die, judging by the state of his countenance. She trembled and hoped that Natalie was not entertaining the idea of a miracle. 

“Isn’t it so wonderful? Dolokhov told me he was back here, and that he wanted to see me straight away.”

“The Prince was most generous in not having me killed immediately,” Dolokhov said, his dark eyes falling on Prince Bolkonsky on the bed. The Prince moved his hand dismissively. 

“If I have learned one thing from Borodino, it is forgiveness. I had the misfortune of collecting quite a troubling wound on my stomach and I was taken to the military hospital.

“When I arrived,” Andrei continued, as Sonya sat down by Natasha’s side and Dolokhov resumed his brooding in the window, “I saw a man whose leg was being cut off. He was shouting and screaming to God for mercy. And when I turned my head to see him, I saw that it was Anatole Kuragin.” Sonya gasped. 

“Up until that moment, I thought that I wanted him dead. Up until that moment, I knew that I wanted to be the one to end his life. And yet, as we lay there, side by side, both drowning in our own blood, I felt comforted because I bore no ill will toward him. And we reached for each other and took one another’s hands. And I forgave him. I forgave Dolokhov. And I forgave The Countess Natalya.” he said, licking his lips. Natasha retrieved a cup from the bedside table and helped him dribble water into his dry mouth. Some of it dribbled out and ran in rivulets down his chin, moistening his cracked lips. Sonya swallowed, herself suddenly parched. 

“Rest, Dear Andrei.” Natasha said tenderly. She wiped the water away with a cloth and then placed it across the Prince’s brow. His handsome face was ghostly in the afternoon light, and his dark eyes drooped as he fell into a shallow sleep. Natasha busied herself wringing out cloths and tidying up the room, and it was in that moment that Sonya recognized her young cousin as a woman and most definitely not the 13 year old girl who’d kissed Boris Drubetskoy in the conservatory. Sonya seemed to find for the first time a selflessness in Natasha where there was once frivolity. Her once slender arms were plump and pretty and her young face had begin collecting scars and lines. Though she was just 20 years old, her soul had grown eons in just the span of 7 years. Sonya knew that she need not worry about Natasha’s naivety about Andrei’s condition because Natasha was not a child and recognized a dying man when she saw one. And so apprehensive Sonya, Sonya who fretted and worried about her cousins, Sonya who was sensible, sat back in her chair at Andrei’s bedside, relieved. 

“He won’t last the week, Countess,” said Dolokhov’s quiet and sympathetic voice from the window. Sonya looked up at him. The afternoon sun illuminated his age, the deep crow’s feet by his eyes, the sparse grey hairs in his beard and hair. Sonya pursed her lips and glanced at her cousin, who was faced away from her. 

“I know, Monsieur Dolokhov.” she replied, replacing the cloth on Andrei’s head. It slipped down his face slightly to cover his eyes, which were squeezed shut in pain, and when Natasha adjusted it, his eyes were relaxed and peaceful. “I am not so naive as you remember. But is it a crime to care for him, to see him to the end?”

“Of course not,” Sonya said gently, rising to touch Natalie’s arm gingerly. Natasha turned around and buried her face in Sonya’s neck, and Sonya could feel the tears running down her back. 

“I love him,” Natalie whispered quietly, so quietly that Dolokhov couldn’t hear. Sonya laid a comforting hand on the back of Natasha’s head, stroking her hair. 

“I understand,” Sonya said quietly. “Dear Natalie, you must send for Princess Marya. She and his son should be here... for...” Sonya trailed off, but she could feel Natasha nod against her and pull away. Natalie’s green eyes were unusually bright and swimming with tears. 

“I used to hate that I had to share him. With his family, with his late wife, with Pierre, with his son. But now, I am glad that he wasn’t all mine, because I would be so terribly lonely if I alone was losing him.” And with that, Natalya Rostova left the room to write to the Princess, and Sonya was left with Dolokhov. He was watching her, as he always was, with a strange expression on his face. He made Sonya almost as nervous as when she was a girl, when they’d courted the first time around. It felt like ages had passed, so much had happened.

She remembered the first time they’d shared a private conversation, in the Rostov’s drawing room one sunny afternoon not so different from this one. He was still healing from his duel with Pierre. He was lounging on the sofa, his shirt loosened just so that she could see a small indication of the bandages around his wounds. He was reading something or another, some novel, and with each turn of the page, he licked his fingers. Sonya felt very uncomfortable and squirmed, turning to go hopefully before he noticed her presence. 

“Sofya.” said a voice from behind. She winced and turned back to him. 

“Monsieur.”

“How are you this afternoon?” he’d asked politely, not looking up from his book. She fidgeted with her wrap. 

“Quite well, Monsieur Dolokhov. And you? How are your wounds?” the conversation felt ridiculously polite, and she floundered while she waited for his answer. He finished reading the page he was on and then closed the book, shifting slightly so that she could join him on the sofa. His wound was clearly still causing him pain, judging by the look on his face as he sat up, but he replied,

“Healing well.” She sat down not next to him, but in a chair adjacent to the sofa, which did not go unnoticed by him. His eyes sparkled roguishly. “I was wondering, Sonya, if you might like to play tonight after dinner. Nikolai told me that you were a wonderful piano player, and Denisov so loves dancing...”

“Yes, I can pick out some things to play,” she replied. Her hands were moist with sweat. 

“Excellent. I have been known to sing some, in the past. And I can play duets.” His hand was rested on his wound, and his reclined position made her feel awkward at the civil nature of the conversation. She didn’t know why he affected her so. 

“Oh?” she replied, unable to think of anything else to say. 

“Yes, Sonyushka. I think we would blend well together,” he said, moistening his lips. She felt very flustered and blushed what she was sure was a brilliant scarlet. She stood abruptly. 

“I will pick some things for us to play together. Good afternoon, Monsieur.” she walked quickly from the room, not turning to see the satisfied expression on Dolokhov’s face. 

Sonya looked back at the conversation with some confusion. At the time, she’d put her discomfort down to his attentions toward her, but now... surely it was something more. 

“Sonya. How are you this afternoon?” said Dolokhov’s quiet voice. She looked up from her thoughts and saw that he was smirking. He had not forgotten. 

“Quite well,” she said, laughing gently. “How are your wounds, Monsieur Dolokhov?” he adjusted in the windowsill to make room for her to sit. She moved over to him and took her place at his side, surveying Andrei as he slept. 

“Healing well,” Dolokhov replied, his eyes slightly glassy. They were a deep blue. She felt a yearning for the days that they sat together, side by side at the piano, his fingers falling on hers and his smile distracting her from her playing. 

Sonya used to laugh when he missed notes, which made her feel guilty, but he loved it when she laughed. He thought she was just about the most wonderful thing in the world. He was enraptured by her so completely that it almost frightened him, for he had only ever loved two people so much. He remembered feeling like a young boy again when he was around her, awkward and insecure. 

It is a special kind of woman who can make a trained assassin, a famous marksman, a notorious playboy, fall to his knees. Sofya Alexandrovna did not recognize her talents. 

They sat in the window, side by side, unsure of what to say but full of questions. 

Finally, Dolokhov broke the silence. 

“Will Nikolai be accompanying the Princess here?” he avoided her eyes. 

“Doubtful, he has other things to do more important than seeing his family.” she tried and failed to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“Your family’s financial problems...” he broke off uncomfortably, and Sonya studied his calculated expressions. “Are they truly my doing? I am prepared to-”  
“Nonsense, Monsieur. As much as it would be easy to blame Anatole or even you, Natalie should have known better, and she accepts that.” Sonya chose her words as carefully as she could, but still the bitterness she’d collected with age and experience showed. 

Dolokhov studied Sofya’s face. Her features, which had been softer years ago, had now sharpened, giving her a streamlined and artistic appearance, as if someone had taken the time to very deliberately craft each of her characteristics. Her hair was a few shades lighter than it had been, and it fell around her shoulders and collarbones tantalizingly. He’d always wanted to touch her hair and hold it in his hands (it looked impossibly soft). Her dark brows were furrowed, and her hands were fidgeting in her lap. She continued. 

“Also, my uncle is a kind man but... he is frivolous with money. Nikolai was always entitled to whatever he wanted out of the family vault, and he would have never gambled away so much if he hadn’t been raised with that allowance.” Sonya finished, biting one corner of her bottom lip. 

There was that pesky bottom lip again. Dolokhov was obsessed with it, and so, it seemed, was Sonya. She was always biting it, running her tongue over it, placing her finger on it, and when she was nervous, it quivered. It drove him a little insane, their shared fixation with that lip. He’d never kissed it before, but he thought to himself that if he was given the chance, he should love to. 

“Thank you for saying so, Sonya, but I must claim responsibility for the gambling. I was in such a terrible temper and I wanted to punish Nikolai, I wanted him to suffer.”

He paused, and Sonya’s heart skipped. The timeline of events was not lost on her, and though she’d suspected that Dolokhov had taken the money out of vengeance, she never let the thought invade her mind for long and insisted to herself that he was just a scoundrel, doing what scoundrels did. Now, she was sure that he had been heartbroken and wanted to take revenge on Nikolai, which stirred interesting feelings inside. 

“So I took his money, but I gave it to a beggar, in the end. I could not spend it. Anatole called me a fool for giving so much to a serf, but I felt so guilty about taking it.” His hands fiddled with the bandage wrapped around his hand, and he watched Sonya put her hands over his, quieting them. 

“No need to feel guilty, Monsieur. It is in the past, forgotten.” when she considered the forgiveness she was showing Dolokhov, she paused suddenly as his thumb ran over her knuckles. She had just remembered poor Kuragin, losing his leg on the operating table, and she became quite hysterical. “But what of Anatole? Will you find him?”

“If he survived he will be home, waiting for me when this war is over,” Dolokhov said, his voice troubled. “But if he did not survive, then I suppose I must find a way to grieve him. How does one grieve such a negative figure in one’s life? Anatole was my closest friend and yet now it feels as though mourning him would be inappropriate. Given his... lapses.” 

“You mustn’t feel guilty for missing him, just because he was horrible to some doesn’t mean he was to you. He was important to you, and thus, you must be allowed to grieve him.” Sonya’s voice was impossibly gentle, and it touched him immensely. 

Dolokhov was silent, his dark eyes vacant. Sonya’s hand tightened its grip on his and he squeezed right back, and the room was silent but her heart was pounding. After a moment, he said, 

“And how will you forgive  _ my _ transgressions, Sonyushka? How can you forget? I have made so many mistakes, committed so many offenses.” He thought of his friend Pierre and the Countess Bezukhova, he thought of Nikolai. 

“You are a different man now, I think,” she said, moistening her lip, “And I mustn’t hold this man accountable for the failures of his predecessor.” It was all very diplomatic, and as he looked away with some disappointment, she added, “And you saved my life.”

“You saved mine.”  
“Call us even then, Fedyushka.” she said, in a hopelessly quiet tone. He smiled, actually smiled, and looked up at her, his face bright. Words failed him, and so he simply leaned over and kissed her cheek, and she savored the feeling of his rough beard against her soft face. She found that she longed to touch it, and every other part of him, and run her hands over his skin, especially where his bullet hole was, where he’d put himself in danger to protect her. She looked into his eyes sweetly and longed to reach out, ever so slightly, and take some of his pain. Her fingers found themselves gently on the spot the doctor had stitched up earlier that morning. He winced and inhaled sharply. She looked at him apologetically and moved her hand back down his arm, back to the safety of his palm. 

His eyes looked at her with such a deep expression that she could have swum in them. The afternoon light caught his eyelashes. Sonya’s breath hitched. She didn’t know if men liked to hear that they were beautiful, but this man certainly was. 

“You... are a work of art,” he said tenderly. She could feel herself blush. How could he come back into her life, so suddenly, and change everything she thought she knew? How could she feel so at ease and yet on edge with him, how would she ever think about anyone ever again? She laughed breathily and her fingertips traced the veins up his forearms. 

Just then, Natasha burst back into the room, and Sonya was standing so fast that her body actually experienced shock. Her fingertips were tingling, her head was spinning, and she pretended to fold the quilt that was on the floor next to Dolokhov. 

“I’ve written to- sorry,” Natasha said, seemingly having read the situation in the room. “Sonya, will you come to talk to me?” 

“Yes,” Sonya said, annoyed, shooting an apologetic look in Dolokhov’s direction but not meeting his eyes. She followed Natasha out of the room, leaving him alone on the windowsill. 

Once the two were out in the hallway, they made their way back toward to front of the house, where a sitting room had been made into a makeshift medical supply storage. Boxes of bandages littered the floors and sofas, spare blankets are tossed every which way, and several medical kits had been tossed every which way. The kindly doctor was sleeping on a cot in the middle of the room, his chest rising and falling slowly. Natasha pulled Sonya behind a large stack of crates. 

“Sonya, what were you doing with Monsieur Dolokhov?” she said, her voice breathy. Sonya flushed scarlet and looked away. 

“Nothing, just talking...”

“What of Nikolai? Sonya, think of-”

“Nikolai is quite occupied with your Princess Mary, Natasha. And I am intelligent enough to recognize when I am not wanted. Nikolai does not want me anymore. He hasn’t responded to my letters in weeks, Natalie.”

“So you are just moving onto-”

“I’m not moving on! You walked in on a conversation, nothing more, nothing less.” Sonya felt quite irritated at this turn of events, and though she loved her cousin, she didn't think she deserved her judgment. Natasha seemed to calm down somewhat, her beautiful features relaxing, and then a sly smile spread across her face. 

“He is much improved from the last time we met him. His beard is... striking. And he saved your life.” Natasha grinned, and Sonya smiled back at her weakly.

“I suppose he has. His character is also much less roguish, I might add. He does strike a... compelling countenance.” Natasha giggled and touched Sonya’s cheek, giggling breathlessly. 

“Let us see what comes of it.” Sonya’s eyes widened at her cousin’s words, and she felt feverish herself, for a moment. 

“Natalie, please don’t try and play matchmaker, I am-”

“No no!” Natasha said unconvincingly. “I would never!!!” She gave a quick smile to Sonya and then slipped off, leaving her cousin quaking in the darkened room. 

That night, the family ate dinner at the wooden table in the kitchen. Rations were scarce, so the stew had no meat, just vegetables, and once they had each eaten their fill, Sonya’s stomach still rumbled discontentedly in her stomach. Sonya sat across the table from Dolokhov, whose deep green eyes almost never left her. Natasha sat next to her, and the Count and Countess sat on either end, as if they still were the heads of the household. Sonya held her tongue, as she always did, and they ate in silence. The candles flickered at the center of the table, the firelight dancing over Dolokhov’s dark face. Sonya tried not to get caught staring, but she found that her eyes would not listen and raked them over his freshly washed and still damp hair, the corners of his mouth which were turned up, his knuckles as his hands gripped the spoon. Finally they came up to see his eyes, which were bemused at her gawking, and she quickly looked away. They continued to eat, the only sounds in the room the clinking of spoons and the occasional soft comment from Natasha’s mother. 

When Sonya could not bear it anymore, she stood to clear the plates, and Dolokhov stood up quickly as well to help her. Her heart pounded as they made their way over to the basin and placed the dishes in. She could see that he was smiling. 

“Am I distracting to you, Sofya?” he said, amusement edging its way into her voice. She blushed even more furiously. 

“I do not know what you are talking about,” she replied, unconvincingly. He couldn’t keep a laugh from bubbling to the surface. 

“I will not mention it to you again.” he should have sounded annoyed, but instead it sounded almost like they were sharing a private joke. A shiver ran up her spine. 

Later, once they’d moved to the dining room, Sonya sat on one of the sofas reading, having moved a crate of supplies out of the way. Natasha had just finished feeding Andrei his supper and was sitting on a box by the fire, watching the flames crackle. She was rubbing her hands together nervously and couldn’t bear to think if Princess Marya would arrive in time to meet Andrei at his end or not. Dolokhov himself was reading something, the Count was puffing on his pipe, and the Countess was letting a solemn tear drip own her regal face as she mended her stockings. She said nothing, but as she met Sonya’s eyes, there was hostility and dread. Sonya looked away quickly and found herself holding Dolokhov’s gaze. His eyes were concerned and she looked down at her book, The words blurring somewhat with tears. She could see the word “Moscow” printed in the corner and felt comfort instead of despair. She reasoned the her beloved Moscow had stood for thousands of years and would stand for thousands more. 

Just then, there was some commotion outside, some men shouted and they could hear things moving about. Dolokhov stood immediately, his hand on his gun which was holstered on his leg. He winced because his wounded arm had reached for the weapon, but still he still moved slowly, almost catlike, toward the door. He pressed his back up against the wall between the large front window and door and peered out cautiously.

Sonya read his worried expression and motioned for her family to hide. She and Natasha went up against the wall on the other side of the window from Dolokhov, and the Count and Countess hid behind the sofa, trembling. She could hear her aunt whisper a prayer. Sofya turned her head to Dolokhov, a sheen of sweat on her forehead and her eyes bright from the firelight. His dark eyes told her that he was going to go out of the house to see what was happening and that she should douse the fire. She moistened her lips and nodded at him. 

Dolokhov swiftly opened the door and disappeared just as Sonya went to the fire, dousing it quickly with a pitcher, and then she crept across the dark room back to her cousin. When she arrived, she was still again, the energy in the room heavy and stuffy. Sonya held her breath and peeked out the window, watching Dolokhov sneak away toward the fires outside. As Sonya watched outside, she heard a muffled sob from behind and turned to see her most beloved cousin Natasha sliding down the wall, her hand covering her mouth. A concerned Sonya joined her on the floor.

“Dear Sonya, I fear that, should we need to make an escape, we could not bring Andrei. We would have to leave him to the French. Would word reach Princess Mary in time, or would she walk right into the trap? Oh, Sonya, I am so frightened!” Natalie was panicking, and her cousin put her hands on her face, calming her nerves.

“Shh, Natalie. Hush, It will be alright.” Sonya did not believe her own words but still hugged her cousin with bated breath. 

It was a long stretch of time before Dolokhov returned to the little cabin. They were silent in the room, panicking as they heard big footsteps from heavy boots on the porch and listening to each other’s breathing in the gloomy living room. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, Dolokhov stepped back into the room. 

“It was only a militia of Russian Soldiers looking for some hospitality,” he said, moving over to the fireplace to coax another fire out. There was a feeling of relief that spread widely across the room, and it felt like the whole house had just exhaled. Sonya let out a breath and stood back up shakily, her hands trembling. The Countess fell faintly onto the sofa, and Natasha excused herself from the room, likely to visit with Andrei. Sonya sat next to Dolohov on a stool by the fire, surveying his weary expression. 

“What did they say, Monsieur?” she implored, her voice cracking from disuse. He finished starting the fire back up and studied the flames. 

“We must leave soon,” Dolohov stoked the flames. “They said that French soldiers are two days away, at most. They said that if we were here when they arrived, they would kill everyone on sight and take the men as prisoners.” Sonya tried very hard not to feel frightened, but a wave of panic washed over her as she bit her lip to fight tears. She knew she had to be strong for her family, so she dug her nails into her palms and choked out a response. 

“Andrei wouldn’t survive travel. We must wait as long as we can for Mary to arrive, but if it comes to it...” she trailed off, but Dolokhov nodded with understanding. His hand found hers, and he rubbed circles into the crescent-shaped spots on her fist. 

“We shall have to leave him behind,” he said in a low voice. 

“How will we tell Natasha-” Sonya breathed, but Dolokhov shook his head. 

“If I were Bolkonsky, I would rather be shot than be left to the French. Especially after Borodino. If it comes to it, we shall have to end it mercifully.” His voice shook lightly, and she squeezed his hand with her own. The realistic part of Sonya’s mind told her that she should have known that she wouldn’t have been able to enjoy her time with him or their reunion. The world as they knew it was changing rapidly, and it was filled with too much pain to be able to fall in love or find solace. 

But still Sonya clung to Dolokhov’s hand, their eyes meeting again, and she felt her heart skip. 

Another part of Sonya, however small, told her gently that their next two days would be hell, and though she knew that it would be difficult, she was allowed to be comforted by Dolokhov’s gaze. With this in mind, Sonya looked back into the fire, watching the flames dance and curl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Please leave reviews, if I think no one cares I will definitely stop writing (I thrive on validation sue me). Let me know if I can improve, too, I know this chapter was a lot slower and shorter than the last chapter. Also, someone on my last post commented about their intimacy so I tried to play that up a little in this chapter. And God, I just swooned about the art line, I had to make it the title. Thanks so much for reading!!!


	3. I can't bear this waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey welcome back?? It's been a mf minute! Anyways here's this, sorry its short and shitty! It's hard to update here at college, so cut me a break that its bad. Thanks :)

In the morning, Sonya and Natasha got up early, so as to not miss Princess Mary by accident. It was still dark outside, the dawn barely yawning and stretching. Andrei was having a fairly good morning, he was able to sit up and his skin did not look so pallid as it did the day before. Unfortunately, though, his fever had not broken. Sonya wrung her hands as she watched her young cousin gather lines on her face. Natasha was Andrei’s constant companion, reading to him, blotting his face with a cool cloth, holding his hand when the pain was great. It pained Sonya greatly to see this, as she could see her cousin falling into love with Andrei all over again and could see no positive outcome. She couldn’t believe their predicament. She didn’t want to see her cousin wounded, but then again, she couldn’t bear to think of what would happen if they were still in the house when the French arrived. 

That afternoon, she found herself in the corner of the room, Natalie and Andrei having dozed off, talking to Dolokhov in hushed tones. They were standing quite close, speaking almost directly into the other’s ear in fear of waking the sleeping pair. 

“No word from the Princess?” he murmured. She shook her head with trepidation. 

“No, Monsieur. And every hour, Andrei gets worse. I fear what we must do.” 

“You know, Sonyushka, very well what you must do. If it should come to that.”

Sonya crossed herself uneasily. “Oh, I hope she comes soon. The thought of leaving Bolkonsky’s body here for the French, it makes me shudder.” Sonya hugged her arms over her chest. 

“Me as well,” Dolokhov said truthfully, and took Sonya’s chin into his hand, forcing her to look into his deep blue eyes. 

“I... I have realized that I cannot just leave him here. If we run out of time, and the Princess had not come...” he swallowed thickly, “You and your family should flee and I should stay here and make a stand.” 

Sonya gasped. “No, Fedya. It is suicide! You must come with us!” he stepped back, running his fingers through his hair. 

“I have recently become interested in atoning for my transgressions of the past. Atonement is about self-sacrifice, something my friend Anatole never understood. I could give Bezukhov and Count Rostov and Bolkonsky all the money in the world but it wouldn’t mean anything. If I can sacrifice myself to allow a sister to be with her brother in his final moments, I must. I cannot run like...”

“A coward?” Sonya finished his sentence for him, hissing the words. Anger rose in her chest. “So then what will that make me? I cannot allow you to sacrifice yourself like that. You must be a fool if you think you could stop me from staying at your side, should you be forced to do this.”

“Damn it all, Sonya, I am only trying to save you!” Dolokhov replied, frustrated. His hands absentmindedly massaged his scruffy jaw. She swallowed hard.

“Would I not be safer traveling the countryside with you? After all, we would have no protection if you stayed.”

“I have seen you defend yourself. You can take care of your family.” He was becoming more and more irritated as was she. 

“Perhaps,  _ Monsieur, _ ” she spat the word, “I need you to accompany us.”

“Oh, go on, Sophie, you do not need me, or have you forgotten what occurred 6 years ago?” Dolokhov hissed. Instantly there was regret in his face, but the words still stung. It felt like a harsh rap on the knuckles, and Sonya stepped back. 

“That... was 6 years ago. I was a foolish youth, Dolokhov. I have accepted that you have changed for the better, it is unfair that you do not afford me the same luxury.” She said, impossibly quietly. The air in the room had gone stale and horrible silent. Dolokhov once again ran his hand through his hair. 

“I’m sorry, Sofya,” he replied. “I didn’t mean-”

“Forgotten,” she replied, her arms crossing once again over her chest. “I am... I need to lie down. Knock on my door when Natalie wakes up.” 

And without waiting for confirmation, Sonya left the room, still brewing quietly. She was angry at his words, but his hurt made her feel horrible about herself. His willingness to sacrifice himself gave her much chagrin, because she knew she could not stop him if he wanted to give himself over like that, knew that it was his prerogative to do as he liked in order to “atone”. 

_ Still _ , she thought to herself as she closed the door to her and Natasha’s shared room and laid down on top of the blankets,  _ I should like him to live very much _ . 

As she drifted into sleep, she was greeted by a very strange dream. She was in the library in the house in Moscow. It was late afternoon, and she was sitting on the sofa, reading Shakespeare and watching dust filter through the light from the window. The cat was sleeping in the pool of sunshine by her feet. 

Suddenly, there was a hand on her shoulder, and when she turned around, it was Dolokhov. 

“Oh, hello Monsieur,” she said, and he knelt before her, cutting off her words with a passionate kiss. She was surprised at first, but with the heat of his lips on hers, she sunk into it, enjoying the feeling of his beard tickling her chin. His hands were on her shoulders, hers slowly, languidly carding through his hair. He broke away from her mouth and moved to her neck, placing soft, scratchy kisses along her pulse and collarbones. Her hands made fists in his hair and he chuckled lightly.

“I... should have married you when I had the chance,” she said, and suddenly he was gone, and it was dark in the library, and she watched Moscow burn through the window. 

She awoke in a panic at the sounds of people entering the house. Darkness had fallen, and as she stumbled out of bed she wondered how long she’d been asleep. She paused by the mirror and fixed an out of place curl before creeping out into the hallway. She could hear Natasha’s voice, along with a woman’s voice she couldn’t quite place. 

“... God, you got here in time, Princess.” Natasha was saying, as the voices got closer. Sonya’s heart leaped into her throat. Princess Marya must have arrived as she slept. She heard a sound from behind and saw that it was Dolokhov, who was slowly approaching the light flickering at the end of the hall, his stance confrontational. Sonya put a hand to his arm.

“It is the Princess,” she said quietly. They listened as they went into Andrei’s room, and the light faded away. 

“Are... you hungry, Sonya?” he said. “The woman from the stand in the square brought us some bread a while ago.”

“Why did you not wake me?” her head was still fuzzy from the strange dream, and she was irritated that she’d slept through so much of the day. 

“I thought I should let you get some rest, Sonyushka. You haven’t slept properly in days.”

The answer irritated her further, and she felt petulant. 

“I’ll have some later,” she said and started down the hallway to Andrei’s room. 

“Wait, Sonya,” he said and caught her arm. She turned and tried not to let her bad mood show. 

“Yes?”

“About... in regard to what I said earlier,”

“I already said that it was forgotten, Dolokhov.” she responded sharply. For some reason, she was feeling obstinate, and she never acted this way. Not in a million years. But Nikolai’s beloved was down the hall, and she was hungry and afraid and worried, and it was coming out in the form of lashing out at the one person who’d ever taken an interest in her.

He looked awkward. “Alright.”

“Lucky the Princess came when she did, so you did not need to unnecessarily sacrifice yourself.”

“I was... the only person I want to sacrifice myself for it... forget it,” he said and stalked away down the hall. Her heart was pounding, but she ignored her urge to go to him and instead went to Andrei’s room. 

Inside was Natasha, sitting at a chair at the foot of the bed, several guards waiting by the door, and Princess Mary, who was facing away from Sonya. She was wearing a long black dress, the collar touching her earlobes, and her hair was in an intricate braid twisting around her head. She was praying quietly, and Andrei’s quiet smile observed her through his big, wet eyelashes. There was one lamp in the room, on Andrei’s bedside, and it cast the room in a strange, ghostly light. Natasha noticed her.

“Cousin!” she said, and Marya turned around. She had big, luminous eyes, and a small, pretty mouth. She looked miserable, and her cheeks were stained with tears. 

“I... Princess.” Sonya curtsied and kissed Marya’s hand. “Pity we could not meet under happier circumstances.”

“Yes.” said the Princess. Sonya went to Natasha and squeezed her shoulder as Andrei chuckled softly at something the Princess was saying. 

“I love you, Maryushka,” he said. She laughed wetly.

“I love you too, brother.”

Then Prince Andrei Nikolayevich Bolkonsky closed his eyes for the last time. 

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo listen, I wouldn't have even updated if not for a really nice recent comment, so they literally do work! Please leave some comments! Also, idk when I'll update again, like I said it's hard to update out here at college so :)  
> Thanks for reading, as always, I really appreciate anyone who would sit through this little shitshow of a fic.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed that. There is entirely NOT ENOUGH SONYAKHOV on this website, so please, if you're reading this, make sure to give me a review because otherwise, I will have NO MOTIVATION to write ever again because I am a slut for VALIDATION. Thanks so much for reading!


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